” “I won’t respond, Paul. This is the end. This is the way I want it. This is the way it must be. Let’s just have this memory.” That was the last night he saw Wendy. The next day, when he opened the door in the morning to pick up his newspaper, the painting was leaning against the door without a note. He looked at the finished painting and noticed that more than half of his face was in the dark shadow, but when he looked closer at the blue eyes in the light, there was a tear rolling down the cheek, and a sudden sadness overwhelmed him, and he felt his throat ache, holding back the tears that came to his eyes. As the weeks past, Paul wrote letters but got no response, in fact they came back undeliverable. When he tried to find her phone number, he couldn’t find a number for a Wendy Peterson anywhere in Ohio, and now all he had were the memories of their month together and the painting she left him. He felt his despair returning. He tried writing poetry but nothing came. At his feet, he. " Do we have to?" he asked, not wanting to move."Yes, now get up." Linda walked to her bathroom and watched as her son started for his. "Where are you going?" You said we needed to shower," he told her."Yes, but I didn't say we had to shower alone," she said with a smile, as she stepped into her bathroom.Charlie followed her, and after his mother adjusted the water temperature, joined her under the water. He watched as she took the shower scrunchy, filled it with shower gel, and started washing his chest and arms. His hands came up to her breasts and squeezed as she worked her way down between his legs."Don't get any ideas," she told him, "We really do have things to do and we'll never get them done if we stay in bed all day." That was amazing," he said."I thought so too."They washed each other's body, then dried them. Linda shooed him out of her bedroom and told him to go get dressed. They walked into the kitchen together a few minutes later, holding hands and laughing at a dumb joke.
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